Chapter Twelve
“Won’t you sit down?”
The words interrupted Oliver’s pacing, and he turned to Hughes. “I’m a complete idiot.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t,” Hughes said, continuing to fold linen napkins one by one. “I asked if you’d sit down.”
Oliver sat at the dining table, pulling a napkin from the pile and attempting to replicate Hughes’s neat folds. “Of course she came here with a plan. It shouldn’t have caught me by surprise.”
But it had. It had all been fun and games, thinking that Kalila had been angling to have her paper published as Rafiq, believing that she’d come to London simply to learn.
Maybe for a taste of freedom. But it had been stupid of him.
Of course she wanted to change things, to carve out a space for herself.
A space for Kalila Darwish, not Dameer Rafiq.
He understood her desire. Agreed with it, even. But he hadn’t made that clear. No, he’d choked out a few nonsensical sentences, overcome with shock. God, the disappointment in her eyes—
“She’ll come,” Hughes said. Oliver tracked the therapeutic folding of a napkin before dramatically dropping his head onto the table. “And you’ll explain yourself.”
In something of a panic, Oliver had sent a note over to the townhouse.
It had been half peace offering, half lure.
Really, it had been all he’d been able to come up with after feeling sick to his stomach the entire afternoon.
Dunn had noticed his unusual behavior, which in turn had resulted in Oliver claiming a slight hangover.
If she did come, he needed to make it absolutely clear that he was on her side.
Enough to face Comerford?
He’d never challenged Comerford before. Not really, and certainly not in any meaningful way.
How could he? Comerford was his mentor, one of the few people who had actually noted something resembling intelligence in him, and yet—and yet he was still wrong for shutting Kalila down as he had.
And he deserved to be challenged for it.
A knock echoed through the house, and Oliver shot to his feet.
“At ease, sir,” Hughes said, having the nerve to sound amused. His bones creaked as he stood. “I’ll show the lady in.”
“Don’t let on,” Oliver warned. “And we don’t even know that it is her.”
Oliver began to fidget as soon as Hughes left the room. He ought to thank every deity known to man for his father being holed up in some pub or another, because the last thing he could take was—
“A Mr. Dameer Rafiq to see you, sir,” Hughes intoned from the doorway. “Shall I send him up to the laboratory?”
A thrill shot through Oliver, making him feel as if his blood had been replaced with bubbles. “Yes. And Hughes?”
“Sir?”
“There’s no need to be so smug about it.”
In lieu of a response, Hughes only grinned.
Oliver allowed a few moments to pass before taking a series of very measured steps up the stairs. There was no need for him to create any kind of awkwardness, especially given that Kalila believed her disguise a continued success. He’d resolved to wait for her to tell him herself.
If she ever told him.
But he could pave the way for that tonight, if he only chose the correct words.
His gaze was drawn to her as he entered the room. She stood by his bench, examining the electric bulb that sat atop it. In her hands, she clutched the note he’d sent.
“Rafiq,” he said by way of greeting. The word came out as a croak, and he wondered when he’d lost his charm.
She straightened and fixed him with a pointed look. “Well?” she asked, holding up his note. “What was it that Comerford taught that was so important?”
He’d enticed her into coming here by heavily implying that she’d be behind if she wasn’t brought up to speed on the day’s lecture. It was the only predictable thing about her, this desire to learn, to know more, to know the most.
“Nothing,” he said, shrugging. “I only wanted to apologize to you.”
A frustrated frown, then, “You already did. I don’t appreciate having my time wasted, Oliver.”
“Then I’ve more than one apology to offer,” he said, wringing his hands together. Really, when had he lost all of his charm? “Look—”
“You could have sent a written apology,” she interrupted. “You could have come to the townhouse yourself.”
“Indeed,” he said, approaching the bench. “But part of my peace offering is this.” He pulled a dust protector off a shining case-mounted microscope, suppressing a grin at the way she immediately lit up.
“A French microscope,” she noted, seeming to forget that she was annoyed with him. “Buron, correct?”
He nodded, watching her fiddle with the draw-tube and pull open the drawer beneath the stage. She was glowing, interest and curiosity coming off her in irresistible waves.
He placed his elbows on the bench and leaned forward. “You were right, you know,” he said as she peered into the eyepiece. “About allowing women into the Society.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want you to think me against you,” he continued, wishing she’d turn her focus to him. “I don’t—I don’t typically stand against friends. And we are friends, Rafiq.”
“I know,” she repeated, the words softer this time.
“I shouldn’t have said that I am not quite against it,” he said. “Especially given that I am not against it at all. My surprise was foolish. Will you forgive me?”
She remained silent for a moment, hand resting on the microscope as she finally looked his way. She studied him with uncomfortable intensity before saying, “Do you have any interesting slides?”
Relief flooded through him at the response, at her roundabout way of granting her forgiveness. He quickly fetched a box of slides from a nearby drawer, pushing it toward her before resuming his position across from her at the bench.
“It’s hard for me,” he admitted, once she was absorbed by the microscope once more. “With Comerford, I mean. I know that most of his rules are completely made up, and I know he’s wrong, but—”
“He’s your mentor. I understand.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” he said, shaking his head. “It shouldn’t mean anything. And if you want me to say something to him, I will.”
She offered a small smile. “I appreciate that, but no.”
He knit his brow in confusion. “No?”
“No,” she repeated, switching out the slide for another one. “The lecture series will be over soon. I’m not sure it’s worth it.”
It didn’t seem like her to give up so soon, he thought.
“Of course it’s worth it,” he said. He paused, then went for the lowest hanging fruit. “Maybe we could figure out another angle if you explain to me why you’re so passionate about it.”
“I’m not sure that’s worth explaining, either.”
It was worth another try. “You can trust me, you know.”
Kalila tilted her head at him, the curls of her blond wig shifting with the movement. “Well, I—”
“Are you in there, boy?” a voice interrupted from behind the door. Not a second had passed before Oliver’s father entered, reeking of drink.
God, no, Oliver thought, overcome with embarrassment. Anything but this.
William’s gaze landed on Kalila. “You’ve a guest? That’s a shock.”
Her brilliant eyes darted between Oliver and his father. Clearing her throat, she offered a stiff bow. “Dameer Rafiq, sir. A pleasure.”
William eyed her with suspicion. “Not every day we have a guest at Rosewood.”
Kalila remained silent.
“Rafiq attends lectures with me at the Polytechnic University,” Oliver explained, hoping to bore his father into leaving.
William snorted, unimpressed, before turning to Kalila. “Not sure what the lot of you fuss about, looking at pieces of glass all day.”
“It’s science,” Kalila told him. “And Oliver is quite good at it.”
Oliver’s heart thrummed in pleasure as she defended him in the face of his father.
She was so observant, so in tune with everything around her, that she was able to glean what most people would usually ignore.
It made her a wonderful scientist, yes, but it also made her an altogether exceptional person.
“Small blessing,” William replied, “considering what a halfwit he is.”
Oliver flinched, and then wished he hadn’t, as it was safe to assume that Kalila had noticed.
“On the contrary,” she said, as composed as anything. “Our contemporaries at the university have a great deal of respect for his intelligence.”
He shouldn’t let her do this. This wasn’t her battle to fight. He didn’t even know why she was fighting it.
“Father—”
“Fat lot of good that’s done us,” William interrupted, directing the statement at Kalila.
“I assure you, Mr. Booth, that it is beneficial to the scientific community.” Kalila took a step sideways, and Oliver could have sworn that she was attempting to insert herself between him and his father. Oliver, meanwhile, found himself as frozen as he’d ever been in William’s presence.
His father swayed slightly before saying, “You might consider using that smart tongue of yours to convince my son to spend less time on all of this.” He punctuated the words by gesturing to the laboratory. “He’s got an entire violin empire at his feet, but I’m sure he hasn’t mentioned that to you.”
“It has not come up, no,” Kalila said.
The words that came from William’s mouth next were for Oliver. “Speaking of violins, boy, you ought to look in that cabinet of yours. I did you something of a favor. Go on.”
Oliver didn’t move, even as his father stared him down. A week of friendship with Kalila suddenly felt horribly fragile, because there was no reason for her to ever want to return to Rosewood.
No reason for her to want to be associated with the likes of William Booth, no matter how many degrees separated her from him.
“Sir?”
Oliver, Kalila, and William all turned to the door where Hughes, blessed Hughes, stood.
“Your bath has been drawn,” he said. “May I escort you to your room?”
Oliver’s shoulders relaxed as his father considered this.
“Fine by me,” William said eventually. Hughes led him out into the hallway, promising that the water would indeed be hot.